Blowing in the Wind

How do you keep yourself grounded when you’re being torn apart from all directions by gusts of wind? When the wind starts to blow from one direction, forcing you to lean into it, work with it, and move on—just to suddenly change directions and push you from behind flat on your face. How do you build up the strength to fly when the air patterns are chaos, when the wind is howling and fierce, and you’re afraid to hit the ground?

I seem to have an attraction for windy places. My undergrad years were spent on the plains of Moorhead MN (read: Fargo, ND) where the extreme temperatures were matched only by the even more extreme wind. Grad school in Wyoming means that not much has changed, although it is a bit warmer here. I reach out to these places as places of personal growth and professional development. Why can’t I live somewhere temperate, normalized, and predictable?

I’ve always lived my life according to some sort of “plan,” tying my dreams and ambitions down to a metaphorical rock, holding on to them for dear life. It’s as if I was afraid that the wind from outside would tear apart my inner ambitions. As if letting myself go beyond the self-imposed confines of my mind would blow away all that I am, leaving a lifeless shell in the place of me. Whether I was tied down to a relationship, invested in my studies, or was simply narrow-minded in my scope and ambition, I’ve spent the vast majority of my life with blinders on. 

Tunnel vision.

But now, as a grad student studying music performance, I’m realizing that you can’t live life this way. One does not simply walk through life on the golden road of a perfect life plan and stick with it for the entirety of the journey. Rather, perhaps it is I who cannot simply do this. Every time I set a plan something happens that makes me want to change it. Life is open-ended for all of us; we walk through life creating our own narrative. That’s all that needs to be said about it. If you tell yourself that you are a good person, a dedicated student, a passionate lover, and a reliable friend, you will act the part and it will eventually be so. If you’ve ever read the books of Patrick Rothfuss then you know what I’m talking about, Kvothe went through life telling everyone around him he was a hero and acting the part. Eventually the act becomes the reality and what had earlier began as a rumor is now a truth.

It is all a matter of how we handle this open-endedness. Do we become an agoraphobic in terms of our lives? Do we fear the vast amount of possibilities that are constantly available; shunning them all in favor of the restricted life path we have set for ourselves?

I was a closet agoraphobic. I limited my perspective on life to only include music, opening it slightly to include philosophy and then slamming that door shut just as quickly. I decided upon grad school, moving away with my boyfriend and planning out the next five years of my life in advance. But then I arrived here, and somewhere along the line I let the wind into my heart and it has blown me away. 

I made the leap away from the comfortable and broke up with my boyfriend. Leaving solitude behind I started seeking adventures in new places alone and with new friends, I’ve met more awesome people and had more fun life experiences in the last few months then I had had in the past few years. And this is no ones fault but my own. I do not blame the men I loved for limiting my life perspective, I do not blame the professors that encouraged me one way or another, and I do not blame my family or friends, it was merely myself that decided to live that way, and I carry the blame. I was the one afraid to go somewhere new alone, I was the one that decided early on to throw myself head first into a career path with little to no hesitation and thought that it might now be right for me. I was the one who got myself to where I am today and I’m pretty damn glad that I was that person, because I am happy where I am. 

I know now that one cannot go through life in the negative, one cannot say "no" to everything. I'm old enough to know the consequences, whether financially, educationally, or whatever, but I'm also young enough not to say "no" anymore. If I have the opportunity to feed my soul with something new I will gladly do so, whether that means more time in new places playing pool with friends and soon-to-be-friends, or whether it means travelling half-way across the continent to immerse myself in music, I will do it gladly. 

The wind is unpredictable and that’s just something you have to deal with. Trusting that your wings are strong and your eyes are good, you just need to fly away. Sometimes you will crash and burn, but you will keep flying because flying is in your heart, it is a part of you. Every time you cross that hill, fly through that valley, and soar into the sky, your heart lifts and you are happy. Fearing the next crash, worrying about yesterdays weather, and avoiding flight for the safety of the ground is not the way to live, it is not who you are. You are strong, you are unique, and you will make it—no matter how the wind tries to stop you and hold you back. 

Adventure Time in Saratoga, WY

Pool has always been a pretty large part of my life: I grew up playing in bars while my mom worked and while my family just hung out downtown (small towns allow small children into their small bars). I distinctly remember playing pool with my first crush, barely able to see over the table, and the joy I had in winning the “game,” (Although let’s be honest, it was not a legitimate game of pool, throwing the balls around and hitting at them with bar sticks). In high school I participated in leagues, we lied about my age so that I could play in different bars around town on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights (15 to 18 isn’t that big of a difference, right?) and I played in countless different bar tournaments. I bought my first intermediate flute with money from pool tournaments and I played pool every night from as soon as the bus dropped me off at the bar until I went to bed. Pool permeated my life in a way that didn’t negatively affect my school, music, or sports. I somehow managed to do it all while playing ridiculous amounts of pool around town.

Unfortunately my undergraduate degree brought on insane amounts of practice with the flute: rehearsals, concerts, and classes. Studying both music and philosophy I rarely had the time to go to the gym and eat food, much less go to a bar to throw down some money and play some pool. So for years I took a pool hiatus 9 months out of the year.

It was awful.

But then I moved to Laramie to pursue a graduate degree in flute performance. It was here that I saw a sign for a pool tournament on campus, a tournament I enthusiastically signed up. Things weren’t going well between my then-boyfriend and me and I needed to do something that reminded me of who I was. This tournament was it. I later learned that it was a regional qualifier, the very same tournament that brought me to the ACUI regionals in Salt Lake City where I finished undefeated as the number one seed for nationals. Pool made a sudden, unexpected comeback into my life and I have shamelessly embraced it. Now I play in weekly tournaments here in Laramie, sometimes traveling down to Fort Collins for the tougher competition and the better tables. I have been watching professional matches on YouTube in between practicing the flute at school and at night while I wind down from the day with a glass of wine. So it’s not surprising that I have been jumping at the opportunity to travel to see the pro’s play and to test myself against better competition.

My first trip of this sort happened on March 23^rd when I drove down to the Denver pool hall Felt to see Nick Varner and Thorsten Hohmann play, with the intentions of playing in the 8-ball barbox tournament. Unfortunately due to the weather I showed up too late for the tournament to work out, but watching Nick and Thorsten play and hearing what they had to say about pool got me even more excited about the sport. There’s just something about watching a live match over a YouTube match that is just super exciting.

Which brings us to this last weekend. Oddly enough the University of Wyoming had Good Friday off for an Easter break, which turned out to be a convenient day off for me as a pool fan! I had known about the sixth annual Platte Valley Open pool tournament in Saratoga for a while, but I decided at the last minute that I wanted to shoot in the tournament. The final draw was hearing that Shane Van Boening was going to be there, because Shane is the pool player of my dreams right now. I have watched almost every one of his matches on YouTube and am always on the lookout for new matches of his online—whether nine ball, ten ball, barbox or large table, straight pool, anything. So hearing that he was going to be shooting pool at a place that was mere hours from my apartment was enough to get me to hop in my car and drive. I decided to try my hand at the Classic division and somehow managed to get in. With a $100 entrance fee, a $120 motel room fee, $30 for gas, and money for food and drinks, I was definitely stretching my financial situation for this tournament. And it was so worth it.

Although I lost my first match to Richard Case, a man that I would later become friends with, my first day in Saratoga was amazing. I was there with my buddies Scott Maloney and Delilah Ye Feng, and was in the midst of cheering on Scott when I heard that Shane Van Boening and Rodney Morris were in the finals of a mini-day tournament at the local bar, Duke’s. I shamelessly bailed on Scott to go watch the match. Shane and Rodney were playing a strange hybrid of 8-ball and 9-ball that EJ had devised solely for this tournament and that I had never seen before. So, unsurprisingly, I stood by a fellow pool player and struck about a conversation about the ball colors and the numbers. You see, for this Saratoga game (that’s what they dubbed this unique hybrid) the numbers 1-6, 7-12, and 13 were used, omitting the 14 and 15 balls—and the numbers did not match up to the typical ball numbers. 1 in normal pool is yellow, 1 in this game was green, and etc. So I asked the fellow next to me which was which and we started chatting (I think the ball colors matched up with snooker ball colors, but I’m still not sure).

After the match was over I kept chatting with the same pool player until an acquaintance of mine from Laramie wandered over and challenged me to a game. I didn’t want to be rude to my new friend, Jim Calderon, and just go play with this other guy, but he waved me ahead so I played a game. I won the match after playing much better then I had in my match earlier that night. Typical. I always shoot better in the hours after a tournament. It was then that Jim seemed to take an interest in my playing and he and I started shooting against each other.

Over the course of the next few days I learned more about my game from Jim then I have from any one other player. Because you see I never had a coach or anything like that. Nobody decided to teach me pool; I simply picked it up and worked it out. I’m always complimented on my stroke, which is long and even, and lately as I have been entering the pool world I’ve had a few people ask who taught me. But I can’t really say, so I say I taught myself. That’s why playing with Jim was a fresh new experience for me—he gave me good advice about my bridge hand, he questioned my shot choices, forced me to think about my leave, had me re-do shots that I missed until I got it, and just in general helped me out a lot with game. But not in an obnoxious way; instead we just played pool, sometimes I won, sometimes he won, and he corrected any problems that came up.

You might ask yourself why I, a young 22 year old girl, would drive to the middle of nowhere to watch pool, play pool, watch more pool, and then play pool until 3 a.m. and then 6 a.m. the next day. And honestly, all I can say is that you aren’t a pool player if you have to ask that question.

Despite only winning one match in my division, and honestly shooting pretty awful pool on my part, I am so glad that I went out to Saratoga. On Saturday I started playing pool at 10:30, took a brief break around noon to get a new tip on my cue, started up again at 1, and played until 4 when I then went and watched matches until midnight. After midnight I went straight back to the bar and proceeded to play with Jim until 6 in the morning. The only thing sending me to bed was the knowledge that I had to wake up at 10 a.m. to check out of my sketchy motel; otherwise I would have kept playing all night long. I watched Shane Van Boening and Rodney Morris battle once each day of my elongated weekend, I watched Raj Hundal, Stevie Moore and countless others play. I played for so many hours that I honestly couldn’t even tally them up. And I got to meet tons of people who were passionate about pool as well.

Many of these people were people like Jim, players in the Master’s division who seemed surprised at my passion for pool and my insatiable appetite for the sport. I learned their names (promptly forgetting most of them, unfortunately, I have a terrible memory for names), watched them shoot, and talked to them afterwards. I watched matches with them and talked about how when I watch a pro match I like to hypothetically run the table in my mind—picking a pattern of balls (1-3-5-4-2-6-7-8 for example) imagining what my cue control would be—and then I would compare that to what the player did. One player in particular would ask me at each table what I would do, or in the middle of a table how I would fix a problem ball or etc., and I was always proud when Shane or Rodney would do exactly what I said I would do. Hypothetically of course, I can see the shots, but I am working on the cue control to make them happen. But honestly, just being able to predicate the shots of a champion like Shane Van Boening really makes me feel good about my future in the sport.

I am excited to play in future tournaments, I am excited about the prospect of practicing and bettering my game, and I am excited about where I could be in the next few years. The power of youth is infectious and this is the first time I have noticed it: at 22 years old, I can do anything I want with my life, I have a long time to live it, and the open ended nature of it that I have bemoaned in the past finally feels liberating and exciting. I can honestly say that I hope to make something of my pool playing while also working on my music. Maybe someday I can gig at pool halls with a jazz combo and play in tournaments on the side.

That would be a good life. 

Winter

I have been trying to convince myself lately that I do not like winters, that autumn, spring, and summer are superior to this dreadful, dead season. Unfortunately I am proven otherwise the first snowfall of every year. There is just something so refreshing and necessary about winter. Winter is a time of cleansing; sure everything is dying, the trees are losing their leaves and the grass is shriveling up, but this only makes the growth and life of spring all the more satisfying. Winter forces us to appreciate what we have in the summer by making the process of growth more apparent. It’s the physical embodiment of a process that people go through constantly throughout their lives: the process of letting something go, reflecting on its absence, and then allowing something new to replace it later on. With winter comes the constant reminiscence of the joys of summer that many did not even partake in when summer was here. We all tell ourselves that if only it was nicer outside, if only the sun was shining and the beaches were beckoning, then we would take time for ourselves and relax with friends.

And yet there are countless things to do in the winter: one can snuggle up on the couch with some hot chocolate or tea and watch a movie with a friend; one can build a snowman, run around outdoors, or go ice skating; winter is the perfect excuse to bundle up in ugly sweaters, wear thick boots and tall socks, and just be comfortable. It’s the season where sitting around inside reading all day is not considered to be socially unacceptable.

I think that if only we could change our perspective of the seasons and embrace each one for each of its unique elements, then we could find ourselves enjoying more of each year. Rather than loving summer, yearning for it, enjoying it, and then missing it immensely when it is gone, we should keep it in its place. We should recognize that without winter summer wouldn't have it's power, without the slow decay of fall one couldn't enjoy the gradual emergence of spring: it is not necessary to love each season equally, but being able to appreciate each one for what it is is important.

It's similar with people. Especially for those of us that have worked in the service industry. Without the complete assholes, those jackasses that complain, are rude, treat you like an object, try to manipulate and take advantage of you, and are just in general mean people, we wouldn't appreciate the kind and good people. I'm not justifying the jerks out there, nor am I encouraging people to fulfill that necessary asshole-space. Rather I am simply saying that if one can see those people and contextualize them in a more positive way, then it will be easier to tell yourself that he is just having a bad day, or that maybe she got some bad news this morning and is being uncharacteristically rude.

These are the things I consider when I think about winter. When ice, snow, cutting wind, and frigid temperatures come upon me I always remember this poem by Wallace Stevens. 

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

There’s just something about that last stanza: “and, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is” that catches my imagination. What is this nothing that is simultaneously absent and present, that fleeting something that one can only be grasped when one is also a nothing noting the nothingness? 

What do you think?

When in Rome

Well today I finally recorded my audition CD for the Rome Festival this summer. If all goes well they will give me money and I will fly to Italy this summer. While there I would perform in multiple symphony concerts, be a part of a fully staged opera and ballet, and I would have the chance to perform in master-classes and in chamber ensembles with other members of the festival. Ages vary from pre-pubescent to octogenarians and members come from all over the globe.

Did I mention it’s in Italy? Yeah. So I’m definitely crossing my fingers on that one.

Which brings me to a thought: is it a good thing to keep ones expectations low, in order to not be let down? As I’m preparing my audition CD and thinking about the festival I can’t help but get excited (I mean, I’ve been wanting to travel abroad for years now, and this is finally the time and place for it). But then I also think that maybe I should keep this application to myself, not talk about the possibility of being accepted, and just in general pretend that nothing exciting is happening. If I do that and don’t get accepted then it won’t be as big of a deal…right?

Well, no. I don’t think that’s the case. I definitely used to—I remember applying for graduate schools, auditioning for competitions, and just in general doing exciting and new things, and downplaying them so severely in my mind that (I was convinced) I wouldn’t be bothered if things didn’t turn out well for me. But really… who was I kidding? Besides myself obviously. I applied for graduate schools and would tell anyone that it wasn’t a big deal, that I’m just applying for these schools and that it really doesn’t matter to me. It’s as if the very thought that that other person would know that I was invested, excited, and terrified by something, well, terrified me. Why did we feel the need to cheapen our goals and ourselves by pretending they don’t matter? I know, I know, there are plenty of people out there that are arrogant, egotistical, self-serving, and attention whores, but that doesn’t mean that others have to be quiet, self-effacing, and overly modest about what’s going on in our own lives.

It’s an attempt to not be hurt by bad news, rejection, failure…we pretend it doesn’t matter because it matters so much that not succeeding will cause pain. Humanity doesn’t do well with pain (unless you’re a masochist I suppose). I remember when I did not get accepted to my top choice music school last year. I got the letter, kept a stiff upper lip for about an hour or so and then broke down sobbing hysterically. I felt like I had failed life, not just been not accepted to a school. Pretending that it didn’t matter or wasn’t important beforehand had not prepared me for that blow. In fact it made me even less capable of handling it because everyone around me was confused—when you tell your friends and family that something doesn’t matter to you and subsequently freak out and have an emotional breakdown when that thing doesn’t go the way you had planned, they don’t quite understand how to respond.

I’m not saying that everyone should run around wearing their emotions on their sleeves, incessantly blabbing about what they have going on in their lives to the point of exhausting and boring their friends and family to tears. What I am saying is that if something is exciting and important and meaningful to you… let someone know. If something is important to you it should be important to your friends and family. If it’s not, then something is wrong and you have other (more important) things to be worrying about.

I’m excited for my opportunity to spend the summer in Rome. I hope that once I get there I will have time on weekends to travel to all sorts of different countries. I plan to make the most of the experience, meet new people, make new friends, and maybe even find or make a job for myself as a musician abroad. I will never get these opportunities if I don’t try, and I will never get the support of my friends and family if I constantly downplay these opportunities and pretend they don’t matter. 

The Window Seat

As I was taking off from the Denver International Airport the other day I was glued to the window-watching planes taking off, landing, taxiing around the runway and unloading. I was thinking about the stories of all of the people on board those planes- where are they going? who are they with? what do they do? Each plane, each tiny house that gets smaller as the plane ascends into the heavens, all of the cars filled with people—they all have a story.

Gazing out the window I was thinking about my interaction with another passenger at the airport. A Latino woman, clearly frazzled and exhausted, had collapsed into the seat next to me at the gate. She was fidgety and nervous and yet so exhausted that her movements were fairly lethargic. This contradictory mental/emotional state is one that made complete sense to me, as I too have been both so exhausted that I don’t want to move and yet so excited/nervous about something that my body can’t help but to twitch and spasm.

Soon after she sat down the bench seat I was on started bouncing. I was rocked out of my quasi-slumber and, looking down, I saw that the lady next to me was vigorously shaking her legs and feet. This unconscious movement of hers was so severe that my seat was visibly rocking back and forth. It was at this point that I noticed that we had the same pair of Pumas on. So, being the sophisticated and well-spoken member of society that I am, I blurted out “Hey! We have the same shoes! Cool!...” and immediately felt like a complete fool. One does not simply blurt out ones every thought, and yet I seem to do this on a regular basis.  Luckily for my ego, the woman cheerfully laughed and we were able to strike up a comfortable conversation.

A spanish teacher at the school I am attending, this woman loved to travel, had children and a husband who was passionate about music, had much to say, and many things in common with me. I learned that traveling to Europe was remarkable, easy, cheaper than expected, and would change my life. I learned that I need to see the French film Amelie, and that I should embrace the freedom that I have at this time. We chatted easily for the remaining forty-five minutes before our plane arrived.

In this time I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if only we could focus on the similarities between ourselves and others—if looking into different cultures didn’t bring out the strange music and customs, but rather the similarities in spirit, goals and dreams. If only looking into something quite different didn't only show the obvious differences but also the hidden similarities: sometimes as mundane as the same shoes.

After getting onto the plane and into my seat, my eyes settled on the view from the window. I saw workers, pilots, flight attendants, and the occasional glimpse of passengers hopping on planes. Something drew my attention back to the inside of the plane and I looked up just as the woman I had so easily befriended walked by. “Have a good flight” seemed somehow too cheesy, “thank you for our conversation” seemed too awkward, so instead I simply smiled and nodded at her as she walked by. As she returned the smile and hastened to her own seat I was reminded of the ultimate goal of most people: the desire to return home and the often overwhelming need to feel the security and acceptance of family and friends. A security that one can find only in a place called home.